Swift's Epitaph by William Butler Yeats

SWIFT has sailed into his rest;
Savage indignation there
Cannot lacerate his breast.
Imitate him if you dare,
World-besotted traveller; he
Served human liberty.

In Memory of W. B. Yeats by W. H. Auden

Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson

UNDER the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

When I am dead, I hope it may be said:
"His sins were scarlet, but his books were read."

Epitaph on a Well-Known Poet by Thomas Moore (about Robert Southey)

Beneath these poppies buried deep,
The bones of Bob the bard lie hid;
Peace to his manes; and may he sleep
As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering,
Bob went without a hitch or fall,
Through epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine,
To verse that was no verse at all.

Till fiction having done enough,
To make a bard at least absurd,
And give his readers quantum stuff,
He took to praising George the Third,

And now in virtue of his crown,
Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter;
Like donellan of bad renown,
Poisoning us all with laurel water.

And yet at times some awful qualms he
Felt about leaving honour's track;
And though he's got a butt of Malmsey,
It may not save him from a sack.

Death weary of so dull a writer,
Put all his books a finis thus.
Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter
Than did his quartos upon us.

Edmond Spenser (1510-1596)

Here lyes
(expecting the second Comminge of our Saviour Christ Jesus)
the body of Edmond Spenser, the Prince of Poets in his time;
whose divine spirit needs no other witness
than the works he left behind him.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
[Gravestone in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon]

GOOD FREND FOR IESVS SAKE FORBEARE
TO DIGG THE DVST ENCLOASED HEARE
BLESTE BE Y MAN Y SPARES THES STONES
AND CVRST BE HE ¶[AT] MOVES MY BONES

John Donne (1572-1631)

Reader, I am to let thee know,
Donne's body only lies below;
For could the grave his soul comprise,
Earth would be richer than the skies.

A Maid of Queen Elizabeth (early 17th century)

Here lies, the Lord have mercy upon her,
One of her Majesty's maids of honour:
She was both young, slender, and pretty,
She died a maid, the more the pity.

Mrs. Aphra Behn (1640-89)

Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be
Defence enough against Mortality.

Henry Page (1648-1719)
Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Harlton

All you Good People
that here pass by
as you are now so
once was I, as I am
now so Shall you be
therefore Prepare
to Follow me.

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)
[translated from Latin]

Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift, Professor of Holy Theology,
Dean of this cathedral church,
where fierce indignation can lacerate his heart no longer.
Go, traveller,
and, if you can, imitate one who with his utmost strength protected liberty.

Robert Burns (1759-96)

The poetic genius of my country found me at the plough and threw her inspiring mantle over me.
She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue.
I tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired.

Peter Robinson (19th century)

Here lies the preacher, judge, and poet, Peter
Who broke the laws of God, and man, and metre.

Mr. Partridge (died 1861)

What! Kill a partridge in the month of May!
Was that done like a sportsman? eh, death, eh?

James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

"Write me as one
That loves his fellow men."